“You’ll come to Florida with me,” Forrestal had told me yesterday in the Chevy Chase parking lot when the rain had let up, “as added security. Hobe Sound’s a perfect place for them to do it.”
“Do what?”
“Kill me!”
“Oh. Right.”
Which gave me today and tomorrow to determine if my client was being watched.
Just after one o’clock, Forrestal came out the front door, in golfing attire, and was picked up in a black Lincoln with a white chauffeur—Forrestal was chauffeured everywhere by government limo—and, per plan, I walked back to M Street, got my car, caught up with the Lincoln and hung a loose tail on it.
The driver headed out Wisconsin Avenue, toward Bethesda in nearby Maryland, where Forrestal was to meet a friend from New York—investment banker Ferdinand Eberstadt—at Burning Tree, a private, men’s-only country club. This excursion would allow Forrestal to relax a little (if that grim brand of golf of his could be considered relaxing) and give me the chance to see if anybody else was tailing him.
Nobody was. After Forrestal got dropped off at the two-story stone clubhouse, I followed his chauffeur to a movie theater in nearby Rockville where the chauffeur (and I, though he didn’t know he had company) caught a matinee of Undercover Man, Hollywood’s version of how the feds sent Capone away. Glenn Ford didn’t remind me much of either Elmer Irey or Frank Wilson, the real IRS agents on that case, and my pal Eliot Ness and his squad of Treasury agents were nowhere to be seen. Not that it mattered, as I was paying more attention to the chauffeur than the silver screen, waiting to see if anybody made contact with him.
Nobody did. So it was back to Georgetown, with no one following Forrestal’s limo but me, and back to the bench and the coffee shop and periodic bouts of foot surveillance. The coffee shop was my salvation because it provided cold sandwiches, hot coffee and a men’s room. But the place closed at eight p.m., just after dark, when the streets were beginning to thin of tourists, so after a brief stint on the bench, I went back to the parking garage for the car and parked on 35th Street, where I had a reasonably good view of Morris House.
I was on the same side of the street as sprawling Georgetown University Hospital, which took up the entire block between Prospect and N Street. I sat in front, behind the wheel, seat reclined as far as possible, to where I could see just over the dashboard, fedora tipped forward and almost covering my eyes, arms folded casually, as if I’d pulled over for a rest. The key to this is sitting very still—passersby rarely notice you, and if they do, think nothing of the sight of a guy grabbing a quick nap. Plus, the proximity of the hospital made my presence commonplace.
With the tourists gone, and the traffic eased, the neighborhood grew quiet, its carriage-house-style gaslamps casting a golden patina over the elegantly historic homes with their deep-red brick walls, black wrought-iron trim, burnished brass doorknockers. It was not difficult to imagine the likes of John Adams or Aaron Burr walking these streets, or to summon the ghostly clip-clop of hoofbeats, or the sound of children singing “Yankee Doodle” when it was still a new tune.
Or maybe I’d just been on stakeout too long.
It had been a long day and I was about to hang it up when an attractive young mulatto woman, in her mid-twenties, exited a side door of Morris House, near the garage. She had a nervous manner: nothing extreme, just occasional furtive glances as if afraid somebody was watching her.
Which of course somebody was.
I recognized her, because I’d questioned Forrestal about his small household staff; this would be Della Brown, the maid. The others were a colored cook, Leon Parker, a Filipino houseboy (Remy something), and a white butler, Stanley Campbell, all live-in help. The Brown woman, who had this evening off, looked prepared to step out on the town, a milk-chocolate Veronica Lake in her clingy pink-and-black dress with pointed collars and keyhole neckline and bright nosegay at her waist; high heels and black patent leather clutch purse, too.
So why was she looking around like a kid sneaking down a rainspout?
A dish like this, going out on Saturday night, surely had a date; but nobody was picking her up. Maybe that was frowned on in this white neighborhood, a colored boy picking up a colored gal after work. Whatever the reason, she was on foot, crossing Prospect Street at the moment, and walking directly toward where I was parked.
I remained motionless as the Lincoln Monument, in my feigned nap, and she walked on by, pretty legs flashing under the pink-and-black dress. In my rearview mirror, I could see her rear view and it was like watching kittens wrestle in a burlap bag. If she was trying not to attract attention, she needed to find a whole new way of walking.
At the end of the block, she cut right, onto N Street, and when she’d disappeared around that corner, I followed; the night was cool and I’d thrown on a tan sportcoat. With so little traffic on the street and no other pedestrians, I could have been spotted by Helen Keller, so I had to play tiptoe anarchist and keep to the bushes and duck behind trees, staying a good half block behind her, on the opposite side of N Street as she made her way down, her high heels clicking like castanets. Fortunately, there were plenty of trees on this well-shaded street with its handsome Federal-style townhouses, but it was an endless block and made for nerve-racking work, particularly since she was glancing behind her now and then.
Finally she turned onto Wisconsin Avenue, leaving the residential neighborhood for the heart of Georgetown’s commercial district, where cafes, restaurants and bars were courting the remaining tourist trade. Now I had pedestrians to blend in with, storefront windows to catch her reflection in and otherwise conduct a normal tail; and before long she had headed into Martin’s Bar, which surprised me some.
I knew, from previous jobs I’d worked in this town, that Martin’s was Georgetown’s favorite political watering hole—more New Deal policy had been made over beers in this unpretentious joint than at cabinet meetings. What was Forrestal’s maid doing, dropping by the place where Tommy the Cork and Harry Hopkins changed the world while Georgetown students got boisterously blotto around them?
In Chicago, New York and Hollywood, barroom walls are festooned with photos of movie stars, stage actors and recording artists. The dark-paneled walls of Martin’s, like those of any respectable D.C. gin mill, were adorned with framed presidents, generals and cabinet officers.
The place was not hopping—this wasn’t a Saturday-night kind of bar, even lacking a jukebox—and for a moment I thought Miss Brown had made me, and ducked in here to slip a quick exit through the alley door. But then I spotted her, sitting in the farthest back booth, opposite a young guy in a brown suit, yellow tie and white skin.
Georgetown was looser than the rest of Washington about coloreds and whites mixing; but this was fairly bold. The emptiness of the bar was in their favor—in other booths, a few couples were having a drink after dinner or before a show, the bar stools empty, except for the one I perched myself on.
Was this the reason for Miss Brown’s furtive manner? A date with a white guy, a well-dressed, respectable-looking white guy at that….
I watched them in the mirror behind the bar. The red-vested bartender, a pudgy thirtyish guy with thinning brown hair and a name tag that said Tom, came over to take my order.
“Coke,” I said.
“Living dangerously, huh?”
“Not as dangerously as some.”
Tom caught on that I was watching the mixed-race couple in the back booth.
“Hey, we mind our own business around here.” But he had a gentle tinge of Southern accent that called his comment into question.
Tom went away to get my Coke and I watched the couple in the mirror. There was nothing lovey-dovey about it; the man—his face was an intelligent, not unpleasant oval dominated by a strong nose—seemed to be asking questions and Miss Brown seemed to be answering them. Their expressions were equally blank, though occasionally Miss Brown shrugged and her companion leaned forward and tightened his eyes and tried a
gain.
The bartender brought my Coke and said, “Anyway, it’s not what you think.”
“It isn’t?”
He was whispering; and I was whispering back. That was how it was done in D.C.
“Naw. That guy’s a straight arrow. Hell, he’s a damn Mormon. Notice he’s not smokin’, plus he’s drinkin’ what you’re drinkin’.”
“Mormon, like in multiple wives?”
The bartender smirked. “He’s engaged to a nice white gal….”
“Just one?”
“You know who that is, sittin’ over there?”
“Lena Horne?”
“I mean the guy.”
“No. Who?”
“That’s Jack Anderson.”
“Who’s Jack Anderson?”
Tom shook his head and half-smiled. “You are from outa town. He’s Drew Pearson’s legman.”
“Oh, the columnist, you mean.”
“Yeah. The colored babe’s probably just a source. Anderson talks to all sorts of people, in here—generals, congressmen, you name it.”
“And usually on Saturday night, I’ll bet.”
Tom frowned a little. “How did you know that?”
“It’s the only night this joint isn’t crawling with politicos—also, Pearson’s weekly broadcast is Sunday night.”
Now he gave me the other half of the smile. “Maybe you’re not from outa town.”
Anderson was handing Miss Brown an envelope. She tucked it in her purse and exited the booth without a goodbye; he watched her go with the thin, world-weary smile of a priest exiting a confessional. Through the front colonial bay windows I watched her pink-and-black dress hike pleasantly up as she raised an arm to hail a taxi; soon she headed off to her real date, with some lucky colored fella, no doubt.
Drew Pearson’s man was still in that back booth, with his notebook out and pencil in hand, doing what many a good investigator does after a sensitive interview: taking down his notes afterward.
I took my Coke with me and wandered over.
Flipping his spiral notepad shut, he glanced up with a guarded blankness and, in a rich baritone that had some edge to it, asked, “Do I know you?”
I was leaning against the side of the booth. “No, but we have a mutual friend … or anyway a mutual boss.”
His eyes were a deceptively placid light blue, the cool blue of a mountain stream; they fixed themselves on me, unblinking. “Do we.” It wasn’t exactly a question.
“I did a job for Pearson in Chicago a while back,” I said. “When he did that rackets expose. My name’s Heller.”
The thin skeptical line of his mouth curved into something friendlier. “Nate Heller…. Drew’s mentioned you.”
“And you’d be Jack Anderson.”
He was nodding as I extended my hand, which he took and shook, firmly but not obnoxiously.
“Mind if I sit with you for a few seconds?” I asked. “I know you’re probably up against deadline, getting ready for the Sunday broadcast …”
His smile was almost boyish as he nodded and gestured for me to take the seat across from him in the booth. “Yeah, I’ll really be burnin’ the midnight oil. I’m tied up with church all day Sunday—like every Sunday—and have to get my work done tonight, to make sure my contribution to the show’s up to date.”
Settling in across from him, I saluted him with my Coke glass. “You must be good, if you don’t work Sundays and Pearson hired you anyway. Either that or you work cheap.”
He grinned. “Little of both. What brings you to Washington, Mr. Heller?”
“We’ll make it ‘Nate’ and ‘Jack,’ if that’s okay with you.”
“Sure,” he said, still somewhat guarded; he was young, but he was a newsman.
I said, “I’m doing a job for Jim Forrestal.”
His grin froze, then melted a little; something around his eyes tightened. “Really. What sort of job?”
“I don’t know if I should be giving Drew Pearson’s man that information. I mean, for months now, your boss has been dragging poor ol’ Forrestal by the short hairs behind your ‘Washington Merry-Go-Round.’”
Which was the name of Pearson’s syndicated column.
Anderson thought that over; for a young guy, he had a lot of poise. Finally he asked quietly, with just a hint of menace, “Does Jim Forrestal realize he’s hired an investigator who once worked for Drew Pearson?”
“Probably not. And I didn’t think it was … ‘politic’ is the word, isn’t it? Politic for me to mention it.”
Those light-blue eyes were examining me like X-rays. “Why did he hire you? Guy from Chicago like you. Why not somebody local, with Burns or Pinkerton?”
“Why not just use the FBI, if you’re Jim Forrestal? No, Jack, this job requires an outsider.”
A tiny nod. “Sometimes an outsider’s the only kind of man you can trust.” There was a hint of sarcasm in his tone.
I sipped my Coke. “Do you think Forrestal can trust me, Jack?”
He sipped his Coke. “According to the boss, you’re a man who likes money.”
“That Scrooge you work for thinks anybody who wants more than a cup of gruel is a greedy bastard.”
That made Anderson chuckle. “Sometimes I do feel like Bob Cratchit, at that.”
“You think Forrestal’s getting a fair shake from Pearson?”
For the first time Anderson’s gaze dropped, his eyes avoiding mine; his voice sounded troubled as he said, “The boss says Forrestal’s the most dangerous man in America.”
“What do you say? Ever interview him yourself?”
Anderson nodded. “I’d call Jim Forrestal a genuine public servant, dedicated, with an enormous expertise; we were lucky as hell to have him, during the war. And the inside word is he has a capacity for firm, clear judgment, that he can appreciate the complexity of any situation. They say he’s never fallen prey to the ruthlessness that this town almost always engenders in the powerful.”
Like the sort of ruthlessness Drew Pearson indulged in.
I said, “Sounds like you admire the guy.”
Anderson shrugged. “I don’t admire some of what he stands for.”
“Like what?”
“The boss calls him ‘the archrepresentative of Wall Street Imperialism.’”
“I thought we were talking about your opinion.”
He flinched a frown. “Hey, I’m like you—I’m just a paid investigator.”
“Yeah, but you spend Sunday in church. I’m more likely to sleep in with a chorus girl. What’s so dangerous about Forrestal?”
Anderson ticked the topics off on his fingers. “His anti-Israel stance, his ties to Big Oil, his anti-Russian sentiments … hell, his investment firm practically bankrolled Hitler!”
“Yeah, if you believe what you read in your boss’s column.”
Anderson laughed once, harshly. “What, are you my conscience, Nate? From what I hear about you, you make an unlikely Jiminy Cricket.”
“I’m not your conscience, Jack. I’m just the guy who tailed that cute colored maid of Forrestal’s to this bar and saw an information/money exchange transpire.”
The blood drained from his face.
“What, did you think I just happened into this place, at this moment? Shit, you’re not young—you’re a fuckin’ fetus.”
Suddenly Anderson seemed to be tasting something foul. He said, “You know I can’t work out anything financial with you without the boss’s approval.”
“I don’t remember asking for money.”
His fingers drummed on the spiral notepad. “You gonna tell Forrestal about his maid?”
“Maybe not. Why would I want a good-looking kid like that to get in trouble, lose her job or something?”
Anderson smiled again but it was nasty, this time. “Well, then, why don’t you negotiate with her, directly?”
I laughed. “Don’t believe everything Pearson tells you about me. He’s still pissed off that I squeezed a fair wage out of him.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to tell your boss I’m in town—at the Ambassador. Have Drew call me there, so I can set up a meet with him.”
His eyebrows were up. “So you can sell out Forrestal?”
“Now you’re my conscience. Look, kid—I know you must be pretty good or Pearson wouldn’t take you on. But listen to the voice of experience—don’t meet with a colored girl in a white joint, unless you think attracting attention is a good thing for investigative work. Don’t be interviewing your sources in Georgetown’s favorite political gathering place, either, even if it is Saturday night—that bartender gave me your life story and all I did was buy a damn Coke from him. Listen to your Uncle Nate and maybe you’ll last in this town … but I doubt it.”
From the look on his face, you’d think I’d passed gas. Hell, maybe I had. Anyway, he didn’t say anything as I got up, deposited my empty Coke glass on the bar, tossed Tom the bartender a half dollar, and trundled out of the place.
Out on the street, I pondered whether to take a cab to my car in that M Street parking garage, or just hoof it; I was fairly well beat, though feeling pretty good about myself. I had discovered the leak on Forrestal’s staff and found where it led—no murder plot, just good old-fashioned betrayal of your employer mixed in with sleazy yellow journalism, All-American stuff.
And I had determined, to my satisfaction, that neither Uncle Sam nor the Zionists, not even the Commies, were staking out Forrestal’s place, for purposes of assassination or anything else, for that matter.
I was just raising my arm to hail a cab when the finger tapped my shoulder.
Thinking it was probably Anderson, I turned and started to say something wise, but nothing wise or otherwise got said: I was staring into the coldly businesslike mug of a guy perhaps thirty in a nicely tailored dark gray suit with a dark blue tie; his hair was black and trimmed military short, and he had a blandly handsome face with hard dark eyes.
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